


Blood Brother

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Tenth in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warning: Wincest, strong language, some self-warming lube, another big dog, more Mexican food, some bones, blood and cherry-popping and some creepy incantations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Blood Brother (Part One of Three)  
Author: Hellskitten  
Email: crissyd33@yahoo.com   
Fandom: Supernatural   
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Rating: NC-17, FFMA (or, fan fiction for mature audiences)   
Warnings: Wincest, strong language, some self-warming lube, another big dog, more Mexican food, some bones, blood and cherry-popping and some creepy incantations.   
Spoilers: Some but this is mostly AU. This is the next section of my series and picks up right after the story entitled “Flagstaff”. All can be found at my LJ in Memories in reading order.   
Disclaimer: The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB—for now. For the purposes of this story, “Caleb” is an Original Character and should remain here with me.   
Note: This story contains an homage to the wonderfully talented Drvsilla who inspires me so deeply with every little thing she shares with us. Several of you kind readers have mentioned the idea of Drv and I collaborating on a story. Well, this is as close as we can get. She was kind enough to assist me on the description of the character “Caleb” as well as with some other elements in this chapter and then next. You can tell where she starts and I stop—those’ll be the places where the art-writing begins. Thanks, Drv. You honor both me and this interpretation of Caleb with your contributions. Boo-yah.  
Soundtrack: “Song of the Stars” by Dead Can Dance.  
  
***  
  
_Island of Koh Tang, Gulf of Siam – May 15, 1975.  
  
Chopper blades whipped the air and shell fire pelted the Jolly Green Giant’s exterior as the nine helicopters descended on the small island of Koh Tang. John Winchester and Caleb Marshall huddled, waiting, ready to parachute into the roiling battle. They’d volunteered for that rescue mission even though it could have easily been their last. But the moment John and Caleb met, both of them ceased to fear death. They felt immune to it, masters of it. Something buried deep inside told them both with the utmost certainty they wouldn’t die if they were together.   
  
The blade glided over John’s filthy palm, slicing just enough skin to release the blood underneath. He winced then stretched his fingers, holding his hand open and facing up.   
  
Caleb stroked his bowie knife across the center of his own hand, bringing up a fresh track of blood right along the life line. Looking into John’s moss-colored eyes, Caleb clasped their hands together, pressing, mingling the precious fluids.   
  
They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The pact was made in their silent relentless gaze—a pact that went ahead of them into eternity. And then they leapt from the helicopter and dropped straight down into hell._   
  
***  
  
Dean’s cell phone woke Sam just after 10:00 a.m. He and Dean had been sleeping in the last few days, taking advantage of the down time to catch up on their rest. He squinted at his brother, both of them in the same the position in which they’d fallen asleep, and saw that Dean was still out like a light. Sitting up stiffly, Sam reached across Dean’s body to the night table where he snatched up the little phone.   
  
The display said “caller withheld” and Sam shrugged, then brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he croaked then he cleared his throat and said it again.   
  
“Sam Winchester?” a woman’s voice said.  
  
“Yes.” His heart pounded from being recognized by his voice alone and then all at once he knew the caller. “Missouri?”  
  
“That’s right, sweet boy,” Missouri Moseley said. “How are you?”  
  
“Fine. Good. How are you?” Sam cleared his throat again.  
  
“I’m just fine. I spoke to your father this morning.”  
  
Sam swallowed. “You did? Is he okay?”   
  
“Yes, of course, honey. He’ll be back with you boys soon.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh loud enough for Sam to hear all the way in Nebraska. “He asked me to give you boys a heads up about someone coming your way, and while I was speaking to him, I saw something I need to tell Dean personally.”  
  
“Okay,” Sam said. “Who’s coming?” He shifted on the bed until he was lying beside Dean, propped up with his elbow on the pillows. Breathlessly, he waited for Missouri to continue.  
  
“Yesterday,” she began. “You boys crossed paths with a man, right? Someone who chose to remain anonymous?”  
  
Sam frowned, remembering the guy in the Mexican restaurant who bought them a drink then vanished. “Yeah,” he said. “Do you know who he is?”  
  
“Your daddy’s friend Caleb,” she said.   
  
“Oh,” Sam murmured, his mind filling with wildly vivid images of their father’s friend, fellow soldier and trusted keeper of the darkest secrets.   
  
Caleb’s appearances had been few and far between in their lives, but when he’d been around, he’d made lasting, intense impressions. Secretly, Sam had always been fascinated by him. He’d always been someone they could count on for absolutely anything—and to the Winchester men, that was saying something. Added to which, Caleb always knew John Winchester’s exact location, but usually refrained from sharing it. Their father said that was for safety reasons and after what Sam had been through in the last year, he understood.  
  
“Your daddy sent him to help you boys with the guardian,” Missouri said.   
  
“Really?” Sam said, truly confused. “Did he tell you how?”   
  
She sighed and Sam could almost see her squinting in thought. “John didn’t tell me outright because it’s dangerous for me to know too many details. You understand.”  
  
“Of course,” Sam said.   
  
“But I think it’s a ritual, Sam. Some sort of . . . well, it feels like some sort of hoodoo. Hardcore, evil stuff. I’ve only met your daddy’s friend a few times and that was years ago.” Another breath and another sigh. “He was always . . . special, but it feels like he’s become very powerful . . . lately.” She paused, then let go a wheezy laugh. “But don’t quote me on that.”  
  
He smiled. “Never. Do you know when he’s coming here?”  
  
“Today,” she said. “But his ritual needs the full moon tomorrow night. Just make sure you’re there to receive him. Stay where you are right now. I can see you, honey. Both of you . . . lying there safe together. I see Dean sleeping.”  
  
Sam looked at his brother, still, at ease, gorgeous. “Yep. He’s dead to the world.”  
  
“I need you to wake him up for me, Sam,” Missouri said. “Gently, now. He’s got a lot on his mind. I’ll wait.”  
  
“Okay,” he said and then he set the phone down on the pillow. Leaning forward, he brushed his nose against Dean’s so softly, back and forth, nuzzling and inhaling, loving the tickle of his brother’s morning whiskers. “Dean . . .” he whispered and then he kissed Dean’s cheeks, eyelids, forehead. “Dean . . . wake up.” Kisses on those voluptuous lips so relaxed in slumber, warm and silky. Sam felt himself getting hard and he tried to will it away, but it was difficult. Every single one of his senses was geared to respond to Dean with the highest level of carnal sensuality. Since he’d never been denied the pleasures he sought, he’d never had to learn to manage his urges.   
  
Finally he felt his brother stir under him, consciousness creeping up on padded cat feet. Dean moaned and sighed, kissed Sam back lazily, nuzzled in return, rolled into him and tried to cuddle. Sam let him, but tickled his neck with his nails to keep Dean close to the surface.   
  
“Wake up,” he whispered. “You’ve got a phone call.”  
  
“Hm?” Dean lifted his head, squinting. “Is it Dad?”  
  
“No,” Sam said, reaching for the phone on the pillow. He held it out for his brother. “It’s Missouri.”  
  
Dean’s eyes opened wide and then he blinked a few times, trying to clear the blurriness of sleep. “Okay,” he said, taking the phone and pressing it to his ear. “Hello, this is Dean.”  
  
Sam settled next to him, arm across Dean’s warm, naked belly, chin rested on Dean’s smooth chest. He could hear Missouri’s voice and the lilt and fall of her tone, but he couldn’t make out the actual words she was saying. All he could do was listen to Dean’s responses and try to put the pieces together.  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, ever dutiful. He frowned and that expression stuck for the remainder of his conversation with Missouri Moseley. “Right. Yes. I figured that. Uh huh. Yeah, well . . . I know, but . . .”  
  
At that point Sam heard Missouri’s voice raise up a few octaves in a demanding question that almost sounded like ‘then why are you waiting?’ but Sam couldn’t be sure. He lifted his eyebrows curiously but Dean averted his gaze.  
  
“Because,” Dean said, his voice quiet, acquiescent. “Yes, it was—still is. I know. Uh huh.” There was a long pause and then, “yeah. Okay. I understand.” Then he looked at Sam and gave him a quick wink. “We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Dean went on. “Yes, ma’am. Please do. Take care.” And then Dean closed the phone and set it back on the night table.  
  
Sam blinked, waiting to be filled in, but his brother laid still in stoic silence for what seemed like ages.   
  
“Dude,” Sam said finally. “What did she say?”  
  
Dean took a deep breath and shifted slightly under the blankets. He pet Sam’s bare back with his hand, making his way up to those beloved curls. Then he looked at Sam directly, brow raised, lips pursed. “She said Dad was fine and he’d be back soon, and that Caleb was here in town.”  
  
Sam sighed, rolled his eyes. “I _know_ all that. She said she had something she needed to tell you personally—what was it?”  
  
Dean smirked. “Well, it was personal.”  
  
“Jerk.”  
  
“Little bitch.”  
  
The boys grinned and then Sam reached under the blankets, tracing the downy blond hairs on Dean’s belly all the way to his ample, heavy cock. His fingers curled around it, cupped it, lifted it gently into his grasp. Dean smiled.  
  
“I bet I know what she told you,” Sam said.   
  
“Oh? And what would that be, psychic wonder?”  
  
Smirking playfully, Sam kissed Dean’s chest several times, crossing the smooth plain of tight muscles and silky flesh with wanton lips. “She told you to let me do you, huh?”  
  
Dean chuckled, shook his head. “Dude, you’re obsessed.”  
  
“Whatever. That’s what she said, isn’t it? I thought I heard her ask you why you were waiting. That’s what she meant. Right?” He tightened his grip around Dean’s cock just enough to make his brother’s brow twitch.   
  
Dean just looked at him, holding his gaze for a long moment. Sam couldn’t quite read his brother’s expression and that bothered him. He felt like Dean was hiding something very important.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Why won’t you tell me?”  
  
“Because,” he said. “It’s just . . . I need to think about what she said first. We’ll talk about it later.” He leaned forward and kissed Sam’s mouth softly, then he moved under the covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed. For a few moments, he just sat there. Sam stroked his brother’s back soothingly.  
  
“Are you okay, man?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, glancing over his shoulder. He quirked a grin at Sam. “I’m gonna grab a shower. Scrub my back?”  
  
“I’ll scrub anything you want,” Sam said, flirting shamelessly. But he still couldn’t help feeling uneasy.   
  
Tossing back the covers, he followed Dean into the bathroom where his brother had already turned on the shower. Leaning against the wall by the towel rack, Sam waited until Dean turned around again.  
  
“So, she told you why Caleb’s coming here?”  
  
“Mm hm.”  
  
“Apparently, he was our mystery man in the restaurant yesterday.”  
  
“Yep,” Dean said simply. He rolled back the shower door and stepped in under the thrumming water, glancing back at Sam expectantly. “Comin’ in?”  
  
Sam scowled but got in the shower anyway. He held Dean’s shoulder’s, forcing his brother to look at him. “Why are you Joe Mum’s The Word all of a sudden?” he demanded. “What the hell’s going on, Dean?”  
  
His brother pursed his lips and took in a shallow breath, just enough to exhale in a huff. “You missed a lot, Sammy. While you were gone,” he said, falling back into the icy tone he always used when he referred to Sam’s four year absence.   
  
“Okay,” Sam said, letting go of Dean’s shoulders. “Like what?”  
  
“Dad, Caleb and I went on some pretty heavy hunts,” Dean said, the hot water pounding them both. “They had me sit in on some rituals, too. Crazy shit. Collecting graveyard dirt, extracting black cat bone, making rattlesnake dust. Dude’s fuckin’ radical. He makes Dad look like Mary Poppins.”   
  
Sam frowned and reached for the little bar of soap sitting on the window ledge.   
“Why didn’t I know Caleb was a practitioner? Missouri said he was pretty powerful.”  
  
“I didn’t know until three years ago,” Dean said. “The whole time we were growing up, I thought Dad’s friend Caleb was just an eccentric old Marine buddy. Remember all those crazy-ass stories they told us about boot camp?”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Sam said. He worked up a nice lather with his hands, then stroked the suds over Dean’s solid, broad shoulders. “I liked that one about the goats and the tank. Cracked me up.”  
  
Dean laughed. “Yeah. Anyway, a few months after you left, Caleb showed up with a duffle and basically moved in with us. He’d just come back from Africa and he wanted to teach Dad what he’d learned. It took about four months. Really, really intense months.”   
  
“Did you get to learn, too?” Sam asked, keeping his voice low and soothing. His fingers pressed into Dean’s flesh, kneading the muscles in his lower back where he knew his big brother carried most of his tension.   
  
“Dad only let me hang out once in awhile. He said doing hoodoo magic brought the practitioner to the attention of too many spirits. He didn’t want me to be ‘seen’.”  
  
Sam could picture John Winchester’s face as he gently but sternly told Dean to keep his distance. The boys had seen that expression on many occasions over the years. “Sometimes I wonder,” Sam mused. “If he didn’t shelter us too much. I mean, on one the hand, it seems like he was constantly endangering us, but on the other hand . . . he was always keeping us out of the line of fire. He’s still doing that.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean turned around and slid his fingers around Sam’s hips, looking up right into his brother’s eyes. “Listen, Caleb doesn’t know. About us, I mean. Dad never told him and he made me swear not to.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “No, dude. He totally knows. He’s known since that camping trip we took when I was 16—if not before.”  
  
Dean’s brow furrowed into three deep creases. “What do you mean?”  
  
Sam’s hands stroked his brother’s chest with suds, nice and slow, purposefully calming. “Remember we were all sleeping in that one tent?”  
  
“Uh huh.” Dean’s frown intensified and Sam could feel his brother’s belly tightening.   
  
Taking a deep breath, Sam continued. “Remember Caleb was sleeping between me and Dad?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well, he . . . sorta . . . caught me.”  
  
Dean groaned miserably. “Aw, dude, I don’t wanna know this, do I?”  
  
Hedging, Sam lowered his eyes. “Well, if he’s coming here . . . you kinda need to know. Especially since he’s coming on his own, without Dad.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Dean steadied himself with a deep breath. “All right. Hit me. What did he catch you doing, you little pervert?”  
  
Sam squinted sheepishly. “Beating off and . . . sucking your thumb.”  
  
Surprisingly, Dean’s brow smoothed and a little grin tugged his lips. “I love it when you do that. How come you don’t do that anymore?”  
  
Sam laughed, shook his head. “I do, but you’re usually asleep.”  
  
“Well, that’s no fair,” Dean said, pouting. He pulled Sam’s hips forward until their cocks touched, warm and heavy from the shower, twitching softly against each other as they awakened once again. “So, that’s it? He saw you gettin’ your rocks off sucking my thumb?”  
  
Sam offered a lopsided smile. “I was really goin’ for it, though. Dad was snoring so I was in safe-mode—totally forgot Caleb was there. It was early in the morning, I was half asleep.”  
  
“That’s usually when we’d get into trouble,” Dean purred, pressing his nose into Sam’s neck and inhaling. “Just waking up like that, our guard’s down.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said, tilting his head into Dean’s soft kisses. “It was all the way down that morning.” He closed his eyes and the memory of that long ago camping trip flooded back to him all at once, so clear still that he could taste Dean’s salty thumb in his mouth and smell the cold, fresh mountain air. So clear still, that he could feel the penetrating crush of Caleb Marshall’s relentless attention and his own rush of excitement upon receiving it.  
  
  
***  
  
The brief stampede of autumn had Yosemite Valley emblazoned with the changing leaves. Reds, golds, oranges and cool greens decorated every mountain slope and sprawling meadow, and the flat aspen leaves whisper-rattled in the air. The Winchesters were in California on a research trip and they’d been joined by John’s closest friend, Caleb. Sam and Dean liked Caleb. He was inimitable, mysterious and gruff and had some of the world’s most thrilling war stories.  
  
On their second night of a week long camping trip, Caleb had treated them all to steaks cooked over the open fire. He’d warned them that the smell of the cooking meat might bring bears near their camp, so he and John both had their shotguns at the ready. Of course it was illegal to shoot bears inside a national park, but Caleb was never bothered by rules.   
  
With their bellies full, the four of them stretched out around the fire and listened to Caleb tell stories about his many adventures since leaving the Marines. John sat beside his friend watching him narrate, his dark green eyes full of love and admiration. Sam watched his father watching Caleb and wondered if their relationship had ever crossed that one particular line. Dean might know. He’d have to ask when they were alone later.  
  
The big meal, the warmth of the fire and the clean crisp autumn air had Sam dozing off at around 11:00. He was leaning against Dean who was leaning against a thick tree trunk and he decided he was just too comfortable to drag himself all the way over to his sleeping bag. Instead, Sam just turned on his side, wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist and fell asleep with his head on his brother’s chest. Some time later, he woke up in Caleb’s powerful arms being carried through the zippered opening of their tent.  
  
Sam Winchester was in the middle of his sixteenth year and he wasn’t sure how he felt about being carried to bed like a child—especially when he was almost Caleb’s height. Then again, he liked Caleb’s smell—suntanned skin, clean sweat in his cotton t-shirt, warm leather scent from his soft suede vest, wood smoke, whisky and good tobacco. Sam definitely liked the way his chest and big arms flexed when he knelt down to deposit Sam on his sleeping bag. Deciding it wasn’t all that bad, he gave Caleb a sleepy smile as he laid down and wriggled into his bag, toeing his shoes off before zipping up. The last thing he saw before drifting off again was dad’s friend Caleb giving him a secret wink.  
  
He was vaguely aware when Dean crawled into his own sleeping bag on Sam’s right side. His brother scooted close to him and left his bag half unzipped in case Sam wanted to touch him during the night. Sam breathed in deeply when Dean was near him, relaxing into his brother’s delicious scent and familiar warmth. Nestled close to Dean’s body, Sam slept like the dead until the sun came up.  
  
Some time right after dawn, Sam woke up half way. He laid still for a long time, drifting in and out of dreams, listening to Dean breathe in his sleep, listening to his father snore softly on the other side of the tent. Caleb was so quiet, Sam forgot he was there, even though their father’s friend was sleeping only inches away from him on his left. Dean’s arms were around him inside Sam’s sleeping bag—one arm draped over his waist, the other stretched under Sam’s neck. Sam’s head was nestled into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, his back pressed into Dean’s torso.  
  
Happy, warm and comfortable, he sighed and reached for Dean’s outstretched hand. Easily he bent Dean’s relaxed arm at the elbow and gently fed his brother’s thumb into his mouth, cupping Dean’s hand with his fingers. Dean shifted, then settled, sighing in his sleep. Sam licked that salty thumb, then sucked on it, swallowing and sucking harder by the second. Just having something in his mouth always made Sam feel safe, secure and calm, but sucking on anything that belonged to Dean had a whole range of additional responses attached to it.   
  
Sam sighed, sucked and swallowed, trying to keep himself from moaning even though he wanted to very badly. His body tingled and he pushed backward into Dean’s sleeping weight, not wanting to wake him, just needing to be as close as possible. The sleeping bag fabric between them itched his lower back under his t-shirt and annoyed him, but he was too relaxed to move it out of the way. All he wanted to do was enjoy that thumb in his mouth and quietly, so quietly, get himself off.   
  
His cock burned against his belly, pressed tight by his shorts and the jeans he’d fallen asleep in. With his right hand, he reached down and manipulated the fly buttons, each one popping softly inside the sleeping bag as he opened it. Wiggling, he tugged at the fabric of his shorts until he could get his hand down under the waistband. When his fingers made contact with his hot, twitching cock, Sam did moan—but very quietly. He sucked Dean’s thumb harder and wetter, sinking further down into the raw, primal pleasure of both acts.  
  
His fingers worked his cock and he sucked and sucked, his breath coming out in short pants. He tried to stay still so he wouldn’t wake Dean or his dad but the pleasure was getting so intense. His left hand clutched Dean’s hand, pressing his thumb into Sam’s drooling mouth. The small smacking sounds he was making only fueled his desire and then, out of nowhere, he felt a tiny, gentle scratching along the bridge of his nose.  
  
Sam froze, his eyes snapped open and Caleb’s handsomely weathered face was there, only inches from his own. With Dean’s thumb cradled in his mouth, Sam gulped, suddenly quite certain he was going to have a heart attack.  
  
He and Caleb stared at each other for an epic stretch of seconds. In the faint gray dawn light, Caleb’s eyes were the hue of Coke bottle glass, lids heavy with sleep and the weight of his thick, wheat-colored lashes. An impish grin was trying to pull his lips, but he seemed to be fighting it. He was raised up on his elbow with his head propped in his right hand, and with the index finger of his left he touched Sam’s nose again very gently. That finger slid along the bridge, down to the soft cleft above the lip and over Sam’s distended top lip until it trailed along Dean’s relaxed wrist. Finally, that finger came to Caleb’s own mouth, resting against his lips in the familiar ‘shhh’ gesture.  
  
Sam gulped, stared into those bottle glass eyes, and then Caleb whispered to him.  
  
“It’s too early for me to be awake, kiddo. Keep it down.” Then that grin won, spreading Caleb’s full, dark pink lips with playful affection.  
  
Anyone else would have been mortified. Anyone else would have ceased all masturbatory activities at once and curled into a humiliated ball inside the sleeping bag. But Sam Winchester wasn’t anyone else and he wasn’t about to have his pleasures disrupted.  
  
His green eyes went flinty and narrow, challenging his father’s friend with defiance. He held Dean’s thumb in his mouth and started sucking it again, but he did try to keep the slurping sounds quiet. That small concession wouldn’t interfere too much. Caleb held his gaze, eyebrows twitching with amusement, but he didn’t move. He just stayed there, reclined in his own sleeping bag, mere inches away from Sam’s body—separated by nothing more than two pieces of insulated fabric.  
  
Exhilarated by the tension, Sam almost came right there. Taking a few deep, hitching breaths he steadied himself, savored Dean’s delicious thumb and then finally resumed masturbating. Caleb kept watching him, his eyes never releasing Sam’s rebellious gaze. It seemed like he knew how his attention was affecting Sam, even though no words had been spoken. When Sam started panting again, the tip of Caleb’s tongue slid out and wet his bottom lip, but that was the only reaction he had.  
  
Totally over stimulated, Sam came in wrenching spasms that forced his eyes closed. He bit down on Dean’s thumb to keep from crying out, instantly worried he’d wake his brother, but somehow Dean slept right on through.   
  
As the climax waned, the churning chemicals in Sam’s brain shifted, switched and settled into the inevitable calm that followed a good, hard orgasm. His body glowed with sweat and heat and his lips and nipples simmered with sensation. Eyes still closed, he gave Dean’s thumb one last reverent kiss then released it, letting his brother’s arm slump back to its outstretched position. With his breathing steady once again, he slowly opened his eyes.  
  
Caleb hadn’t moved and he was still grinning. Sam noticed that his lips were darker pink than before, but that was the only change in his expression. For a moment, they just looked at each other and then Caleb shifted, lying back down in his sleeping bag. He turned his head toward Sam and whispered very softly.  
  
“Was that fun?”  
  
Sam licked his bottom lip, nodded once, then licked his top lip. His mouth still tasted like Dean, but his nose was full of Caleb’s scent, which seemed to have suddenly risen in the quiet tent. His gaze went from Caleb’s eyes to his lips and lingered there covetously, wondering if he should take such a big risk. Sam Winchester was no chicken, that was sure, but what he wanted to do then could have deadly repercussions.  
  
Once again, Caleb seemed to read his mind. He quirked a smile, then tilted forward just enough to press those lips against Sam’s sweaty forehead—hot and silky, but intriguingly different in texture from Dean’s. Sam swallowed when Caleb got that close and raised his chin, longing to get a kiss on the mouth to investigate those lips, but he had no such luck.  
  
“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Caleb whispered. He winked then turned on his side, facing away.   
  
Sam scowled, vexed by the rejection. He watched the back of Caleb’s head for a long time before his eyes began to feel heavy again. As he drifted back to sleep, all he could think about was the way his father’s roguish friend had brazenly watched him masturbate, never taking his eyes away. Had he been aroused by watching? Did he want to kiss Sam as much as Sam wanted him to? What, exactly, had just gone down?  
  
Nothing was ever said about the experience and nothing more was ever done between them. But Sam Winchester never forgot that morning. The memory of it often crept into his darkest, most secret fantasies.  
  
  
***  
  
Dean had been chuckling all the way through the last part of Sam’s story. They’d progressed to hair washing and were both thoroughly covered in fragrant suds, but the laughing was getting on Sam’s nerves.  
  
“What?” he said.  
  
“You had yourself a little crush, Sammy.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “So?”  
  
“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” Dean said, still grinning. “Caleb’s hot . . . in that dangerous, eat-your-eyes-out-in-your-sleep kinda way. But I didn’t know you tried to _go there_.” More chuckling. “In the same tent as me and Dad. You moron. As if Caleb would even consider doing that!”  
  
Sam flicked soap into Dean’s face which only made him laugh harder.   
  
“I just wanted a kiss,” he said and then he set his jaw tight. “In fact, I _still_ want it. And I might just try to get it, since Dad won’t be along as chaperone.”  
  
Dean dropped his chin and deadpanned, “good luck with that. He’s still Dad’s best friend, dude. If he wouldn’t kiss you then in that totally charged moment, he ain’t gonna do it now.”  
  
“I was underage then,” Sam said, knowing his tone was just a little bitchy and not really caring.  
  
“Whatever,” Dean said. “Just don’t embarrass yourself. Or Dad.”  
  
Sam narrowed his eyes but said nothing more.  
  
“All right, come here,” Dean said, clearly finished with that topic. He grabbed Sam’s arm and turned him toward the streaming shower. Still a little cranky, Sam hesitated at first, but then bent his head back and wet his hair. Dean slid his shampoo soapy fingers into it. Leaning forward with his hands on Dean’s hips, Sam sighed as his brother’s nimble fingers in his hair raised tingly goosebumps down his spine and legs.   
  
“Actually, that reminds me,” Dean said.  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“I always wondered . . . ya know, if Caleb and Dad ever . . .”  
  
Sam smiled to himself, eyes closed to the soap running down the sides of his face. “I always wondered that, too.”  
  
“Well, it’s entirely possible,” Dean said. “They’ve known each other for over thirty years and have been through actual, literal hell together. Wouldn’t surprise me if they crossed the line at some point, even if it was just a bonding thing.”  
  
Sam straightened, tilting his head back into the water to rinse his hair. “I guess we could ask,” he said.  
  
Dean stood beside him under the stream and rinsed off, as well. “I don’t recommend that. Caleb would probably snap you in half for even suggesting it.”  
  
“No, he wouldn’t.” Sam ran his fingers through his clean, wet hair, then he rolled the shower door back and grabbed a towel. “He might slug me just on GP, but he wouldn’t really be mad.” He stepped out onto the thin bath mat and started to dry off while Dean finished rinsing.  
  
“I’m just sayin’,” Dean said. He shook his head like a wet puppy to loosen some of the water, then he shut off the shower. “It’s not a good idea.”  
  
Sam tied his towel around his waist, then reached up for a clean one. He shook it open and held it out for Dean to step into, which he did with a playful smirk.  
  
“What’s this, spa treatment?”  
  
Sam grinned, rubbing the clean towel over Dean’s chest and arms. He’d had an idea since the previous afternoon and now seemed as good a time as any to propose it.   
  
“Spa treatment might be fun,” he said, his voice low and breathy. “Want a massage? I’ll rub you down with that warming gel.”  
  
Dean offered a sexy smirk, his hands finding Sam’s hips and gripping gently. “I love that plan, Sammy.”  
  
Sam leaned forward to taste those delectable lips, but in the other room Dean’s cell phone chirped out the tone that indicated a message was waiting.   
  
“Man,” Dean groaned. He gave Sam a quick kiss on the mouth. “Hold that thought.”  
  
“You bet.” Sam stood aside and let his brother out of the bathroom, then followed him into the motel room.  
  
Naked and glistening with water, Dean grabbed the phone off the night table and squinted at the display. Sam sat on the bed watching him, still holding the towel he’d been using in the bathroom. He gazed longingly at his brother’s wet thighs and buttocks, all dusted with golden blond hairs that were matted to his honey-pale skin. While Dean punched in his voicemail code, Sam’s mouth watered as he watched two large drops track down Dean’s spine and disappear into the dark crevice between his butt cheeks.   
  
He pulled Dean back by his hips until he could get his tongue right into the soft divot below his tailbone. Sam licked the flesh there over and over, then kissed it, nuzzling Dean’s dripping lower back.  
  
“Mm,” Dean purred appreciatively, but he turned around in Sam’s grasp. He held up the cell phone. “There’s one message and, imagine this, the caller is withheld.”  
  
“Astounding,” Sam said, leaning forward to press a hungry kiss into the purplish hickey he’d made on Dean’s water-beaded belly.  
  
“Hold your horses, tiger,” Dean said. He took hold of Sam’s hair in the back and tilted his head so they were looking at each other. “Let’s listen.” He held the phone up between them so they could both hear the message, and then he pressed the number that would start the recording.  
  
Caleb’s voice on the phone was just as Sam had remembered: light, practiced neutrality that could be midwestern or could be learned and forced over his Alabama roots; deep in resonance but not register; certain of everything, from ‘heya kiddo how's it hanging’ to ‘fuck yeah I can kill a demon that looks like a sweet six-year-old with my bare hands.’  
“Hey, boys,” Caleb’s message said. “Where the fuck are you? I thought the nice psychic lady told you to stay put. Meet me in half an hour at that Mexican place from yesterday. Your turn to buy me drinks. Oh, and your daddy told me he gave you some keys. Bring ‘em.”   
Sam pictured Caleb leaving that message, wondering if he’d even asked their father why he was coming to them. Caleb never needed details. He was true friend and true Marine wrapped up in a gray tank top and flannel shirt. Details were for pussies. Details could wait.  
The message ended abruptly and the boys looked at each other, both wearing the same bewildered expression.  
  
“He wants that ring of old keys?” Sam said.  
  
“I guess so.” Dean tossed the phone on the bed, then crossed the room to his bag, rifling his clothing and various weaponry until he found the plastic grocery sack he’d put the keys in. He took the keys out and held them up, letting them jingle against one another like a weighty wind chime.   
  
Sam tossed the dry towel over his shoulder, then went to his brother’s side and reached for the keys. He took them in both hands. “What could he need these for?”  
  
“Dad brought them to us for some reason,” Dean said. He pulled a pair of clean Levi’s out of his bag and tossed them on the bed, then went back in for underwear and a shirt.  
  
Sam frowned at the keys, touching each of them with his fingers in case he might get some impression. Not that his psychic abilities had ever worked that way, but they were still new and always changing.   
  
Dean grabbed the towel off Sam’s shoulder and dried himself quickly, then got into his clothes. He sat on the bed to put his boots on and his green eyes did a dance of appreciation up and down his little brother’s tall, lean body. “Better get dressed,” he said. “Caleb left that message fifteen minutes ago. We don’t wanna keep him waiting, Sammy.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said, still distracted by the keys. He set them on the dresser then went to his bag. Khakis, a blue t-shirt and a gray flannel were the first things he found that were clean and he was dressed in a matter of seconds. With a perplexed frown, he sat next to Dean on the bed and tugged on his shoes. “I think I’m nervous,” he confessed.  
  
Dean turned to him with a wry smile. “God, you are gonna try to kiss him, aren’t you?”  
  
“Shut up. I meant that I’m nervous about why he’s here. About the guardian.”  
  
Dean clapped Sam’s knee then stood up, shouldering into his leather jacket. “Me, too. But this was Dad’s idea, so I trust it. He wouldn’t put us in harm’s way. Neither would Caleb.”  
  
Sam nodded but his feeling of unease kept growing. He followed Dean out the door into the bright mid-day sun, shoes crunching the line of rock salt Dean had put down in front of the door. They locked their room behind them. Without discussing it, they passed the Impala in the motel’s parking lot and started walking down the street toward Juanito’s Mexican Restaurant.   
  
Half way down the block the boys spotted a large dog headed toward them on the sidewalk. It approached without hesitation but also without malice, keeping an even gait that matched their speed. The three of them met in front of a small yellow house surrounded by a white picket fence and the dog stopped, sitting down on the warm concrete in their path.  
  
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, then looked back at the dog. The dog looked from one to the other of them, panting amiably.   
  
“He’s pretty,” Sam mused. “It’s an Alaskan Malamute.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me, Ace Ventura.”  
  
Sam ignored him and knelt down, holding out his hand in a loose fist. The large black and white dog assessed him with keen eyes the color of aquamarine and tilted its head at Sam’s offered hand.   
  
“I don’t care how pretty it is, dude,” Dean muttered. “If it makes a move to bite you, I’m pumpin’ it full o’ rock salt.”  
  
“He’s not gonna bite me,” Sam said, even though he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. He knew dogs could sense fear so he tried to appear utterly at ease and unarmed. He smiled into the big dog’s eyes, still holding out his hand.  
  
Finally, the dog stepped forward and sniffed Sam’s fingers, then he pushed his snout into Sam’s palm until it opened.   
  
Pleased with the outcome, Sam went down on his knees and used both hands to pet the dog affectionately. “He’s got a collar.” Carefully he reached around the large furry neck to the simple black leather band secured there. From it dangled two silver military dog tags, one that had a short string of numbers stamped on it and the other bearing a single word: Butch.  
  
Sam reported the dog’s name with a smirk and Dean snorted.  
  
“That’s a lot to live up to. Where do you suppose his owner is?” He glanced down the sidewalk and Sam glanced back the way they’d come, but no one else was around.   
  
Sam stood up and the dog circled them both once, then stood at Sam’s right side, gazing up expectantly.   
  
“You should go home, boy,” Sam said and the dog named Butch swished his long fluffy tail in response.   
  
The boys looked at each other again, shrugged and then they resumed their path toward the restaurant. Butch trotted alongside, ears pricked, tail high in the air, like some sort of dutiful escort.   
  
“Looks like we have a body guard,” Dean said quietly.  
  
“Looks like.” Sam smiled down at Butch and Butch panted up at him, keeping right in step with the boys’ pace.  
  
The dog walked with them all the way to the front door of Juanito’s where he stopped and sat down next to the Welcome mat. His tail swished on the ground and he panted, but his attention was drawn to something across the street. Sam pulled the restaurant’s door open then glanced behind him to see what Butch was looking at.  
  
Parked in front of the hardware store and the bus bench with the ad for John Deere tractors was a gleaming black late model Porsche.  
  
Dean was looking at it, too and then Butch let out a single, deep utterance—not a bark, exactly, more of a ‘woo’. The dog regarded the Porsche intently, then gave another, louder ‘woo’ in its direction. There was no movement from the Porsche whose windows were tinted nearly black. The vehicle was ridiculously out of place on that quiet small town street.  
  
“I say we go inside,” Dean suggested. “It’s lunch time, lots of people in there.” He stood protectively behind his brother in the doorway then nudged Sam’s arm with his torso, all but shoving him into the restaurant. The hydraulic door closed just slowly enough for the boys to hear Butch let out a low growl then another single menacing ‘woo’.  
  
A bustling lunch crowd had descended on the small eatery and the only table available was the one right next to the window. Sam didn’t like it, but they didn’t have much choice. They sat down on either end of the table, both boys unconsciously glancing in opposite directions to check the perimeter. The Porsche still sat outside, parked so very conspicuously across the street.  
  
Sam glanced at his watch. “He should be here any minute,” he said, turning his gaze outside to the brightly lit street.   
  
From where they sat, they could see the front door of the restaurant and Sam watched Butch still sitting by the Welcome mat, a stoic, panting sentry.   
  
And then Sam saw him, standing on the corner across the street, waiting for the crossing light.  
Caleb. Dad's friend. Dad's sometime helper, when things got really desperate. Because Caleb was one of those kinda guys, who went barreling into the firefight yodeling and cursing merrily, and only sometime long after when he and the pal who had needed him are safely on the other side does he ask what it was all about. If he bothers to ask at all.  
  
Caleb. No better person to call.  
  
No other person.  
  
He and Dad had served together. They'd pulled each other's asses out of death's snapping jaws more than once. Caleb would come and do it again, whenever asked, whenever he could. He'd stormed out ghoulies at Dad's shoulder and could be trusted not to freak out by something worse. He could be trusted, flat out.   
  
A rare commodity in people, far as the Winchester's and their family business was concerned.  
  
As tall as Sam—maybe an inch more—and wiry, bull-mule strong, lanky leanness misleading in so many ways. He was fast and capable and could use a .45 or his thumb and forefinger—either worked, if he wanted you to go down. The whole of him was in perfect running order, corded muscles from neck to arms to abs to legs.   
  
He sauntered across the street, poured into a pair of faded Levis that scuffed the ground around tan cowboy boots that had been reseamed and resoled more times than they were worth, because Caleb liked how they fit his feet. A thin, practical belt buckle, no flash there, a ribbed white tank with a flannel of some non-coordinated mix of color plaid shrugged over the top. Caleb stopped outside the door of the restaurant and ruffled Butch’s fur, murmuring something to the dog that made his fluffy tail wag mightily.  
  
“Caleb’s dog,” Sam said softly.  
  
“I figured.”  
  
The bell over the door to Juanito’s tinkled and Caleb’s pale blue eyes scanned the room quickly. Spotting them, he strolled over like he'd seen them yesterday and would see them again tomorrow, but he hugged each of the boys like he hadn't seen them in an age.  
  
Dean was the first one up and wrapped in Caleb’s bear-like embrace. They held on for a long time, squeezing each other, saying a thousand things with nothing more than the pressure of their arms. Caleb clapped Dean’s back and held his shoulders, looking him up and down.

  
“Kiddo,” he said, in his slow drawl. “You’re still too damned pretty. Get in a knife fight, would ya? Get yourself one of these.” He turned his head to the side displaying a deep, slanted scar that traced the line of his jaw for about five inches. “Character is sexier than pretty any day.” Flashing a mouth full of impossibly perfect white teeth, he then put a hard kiss in the center of Dean’s forehead.

  
Next, he turned to Sam, nodded once, then stepped up to hug him.   
  
A year after mustering out Caleb had grown his hair long and left it that way. He was balding in the front, only enough yet so his forehead was more prominent and his hairline more tenuous, sandy-blond hair drifting down to his shoulders in the back. He sported a thick handlebar mustache that grew into a thin beard, neither with any sense of style at all, and Caleb pulled both off with surprising appeal and aplomb.  
  
What might be made fun of initially was always burned away after a crushing handshake or meeting the glint in Caleb's eye that said more clearly than anything _born killer ready and able, boo-yah_.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam felt compressed in Caleb’s arms, but he sighed with pleasure from the sensation. That hug made him feel not just safe, but rescued. And just a tiny bit horny.  
  
Against his neck, Caleb spoke in a gruff whisper. “Who the hell said you could get so fuckin’ tall, Sammy?”  
  
“Right?” Dean muttered, sitting back down.  
  
Caleb chuckled, released John’s youngest son from his embrace, then pulled out a chair, folding his long-legged frame gracefully down into it. Leaning his elbows on the table, he glowered out the window at the Porsche across the street.  
  
“Just so you know,” he said. “Your buddy out there’s afraid of my dog. It won’t bother you if Butch is with you.”  
  
Sam and Dean peered out the window as well, all three of them scrutinizing the guardian’s conspicuous ride.   
  
Dean shifted uneasily in his seat. “No offense, man, but . . . how is an ordinary dog any match for a supernatural being?”  
  
Caleb’s eyebrows arched. “My Butch struck you as an ordinary dog? I think I’m insulted.”   
  
Dean smirked, but he went on. “I’m just sayin’ . . . what could he do if the guardian decided to take us?”  
  
Clearing his throat, Caleb stared at the Porsche again. “You remember that Rawhead in Montana?”  
  
Frowning, Dean nodded.   
  
“Remember the way it blew apart in all those gory shreds when we electrocuted it? Looked kinda like pulled pork when it was all over?”  
  
“Yeah, that was nasty.”  
  
Caleb nodded. “Butch is a Marine dog. He attended the Pulled Pork School of Protection. Your guardian might be untouchable to him now, but it’ll have to go corporeal if it wants to make a move on you two. The second that thing’s got flesh, Butch’ll shred it. He’s trained to kill all manner of boogymen.”   
  
“How long have you had him?” Sam asked, peering out the window at Butch still sitting by the Welcome mat, tail swishing, blue eyes watchful and intent on the Porsche.  
  
“Couple years. He was a gift from a _brujo_ I studied with in Nevada. He told me Butch was charmed and I believe it. That hound’s saved my nuts more times than I care to count.” He turned his attention back to Dean and then smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll dust that little bitch long before my dog has to get his teeth dirty. I just brought him along to keep your buddy out of our way so we can concentrate on making a plan.”  
  
Sam settled into his seat and turned to Caleb, silently taking in the older man’s striking features and demeanor. Having so recently relived that memory from their camping trip, Sam was keenly tuned into all the feelings he’d had that day. Some of those feelings must have been evident in his expression because Caleb reached over with his left hand and gently scratched his index fingernail along the bridge of Sam’s nose.  
  
They grinned mischievously at each other and hovered for a moment inside their shared memory. Then Caleb breathed a laugh.  
  
“What’s with you, kiddo?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sam said, blushing furiously but still unable to turn away. He was transfixed by the way the golden hairs in Caleb’s scruffy beard framed the arching curves of his full, dark pink lips. His mind kept replaying the instant when Caleb’s tongue flickered over his bottom lip while he watched Sammy’s early morning carnal performance. Had he been tasting the air in those close quarters?  
  
“Sammy’s got a little crush on you,” Dean teased.  
  
“Shut up!” Sam’s foot connected with his brother’s shin under the table.  
  
Caleb snorted but held Sam’s gaze, perhaps a little too long.  
  
Sam was undone by the blatant flirtation and he shook his head to clear it, then figured he should try to change the subject. He focused on the two patches of sun-reddened, darkly freckled skin that edged the tops of Caleb’s cheeks. Sam could almost see him standing next to John Winchester, both of them grinning with mischief in the hot desert sun. “Were you just with our Dad?” he asked.  
  
“I was,” Caleb said, eyes twinkling playfully. “Can you smell him on me?”  
  
The waiter appeared and set down menus for them. He started to offer the specials but Caleb held up his hand, smiling graciously.   
  
“Thank you, sir, but we know what we want.” He looked at the boys and said “have you guys eaten?”  
  
They shook their heads.  
  
“Okay,” he went on. “Could we get a bottle of Patron Silver, three glasses, two beef taco specials and one order of nachos—loaded. Extra chilies.” He winked at Sam who blushed again. Dean frowned in the same way their father would when he disapproved, but only Sam saw the expression.  
  
The waiter nodded, smiled, then stepped away.   
  
“Sorry to order for you, but we need to cut down on the interruptions,” Caleb said. He tilted back and reached into the front pocket of his jeans, rummaging until he brought out an object about the size of a deck of playing cards, wrapped neatly in a thin piece of bleached rawhide. He set this on the table in front of him, then folded back the corners of the hide until the contents of the pouch appeared.  
  
Sam recognized one of the objects immediately—their father’s wedding ring. Instantly panicked, he reached for it to make sure of what he was seeing.   
  
“Take it easy, Sammy,” Caleb said, resting his large hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We need it for the mojo. Johnny’s fine.” He waited until Sam looked him in the eye. “You’d know if he wasn’t.”  
  
Sam swallowed, turning his father’s ring around and around on his index finger. “Where is he, Caleb?”  
  
Quirking a smile, he squeezed Sam’s shoulder with brutally strong fingers. “He’ll kill me if I tell you,” he said, eyes glinting. “But he’s in the desert.”  
  
Sam frowned. “What desert?”  
  
Dean nudged his brother’s knee under the table. “He can’t tell us, Sam.”  
  
Caleb looked from one to the other of them, measuring them with a knowing, discerning gaze. “Hm,” he said. “I see nothing’s changed in this dynamic.”  
  
They both looked at him curiously but any questions they might have asked were interrupted by the return of the waiter. He brought them the bottle of tequila and their glasses, along with a large bowl of fresh corn chips and some salsa. Caleb and the Winchester boys waited to speak again until they were alone, but then it was time for toasting.  
  
Caleb poured for each of them, then raised his glass to theirs. He touched Sam’s glass first, looking right in his eyes.  
  
“To Mary and Jessica,” he said softly.  
  
Sam tried a smile but failed, so he simply nodded and then drank.   
  
Caleb raised his glass to them both and all three clinked solidly. “And to your daddy,” he said and he and the boys drank.  
  
Grabbing a chip, Caleb stuffed it in his mouth whole and chewed loudly while he turned his attention to the items in the rawhide pouch. Other than the wedding ring, the pouch contained a small dried animal bone, a glass vial filled with dark liquid, a tightly twisted plastic bag that appeared to hold some kind of soil and a long, thin coil of black leather. The scent of the leather was strong and primal—Sam inhaled, loving it. Caleb held out his hand for John Winchester’s wedding ring and Sam placed it in his palm, then it went back into the pouch.  
  
“Did you bring the keys?”   
  
Dean reached into his jacket pocket and drew out the clattery ring of ancient keys. Caleb took them, opening the simple hook that held the ring together. He emptied the lot out on the table, sorting through them quickly. The boys watched as he carefully selected seven of the keys, then he put the remaining ones back on the ring and gave them back to Dean.   
  
“We only need the brass ones,” he said. “This is a very specific ritual and it calls for nine ingredients: black cat bone, grave yard dirt, seven brass keys, three black stones, a piece of pure gold—jewelry is always best because it’s infused with meaning to the wearer—a leather cord for binding, the blood of the afflicted parties, some rock salt and three white candles, which I’m hoping you boys have.”  
  
Sam and Dean nodded and then Dean let out a deep sigh.  
  
“I knew we’d have to bleed.”  
  
Caleb rolled his eyes. “Dean-o, you want to be rid of this bastard, right?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Then quit whinin’. I’m not gonna chop your dick off or anything.” He winked. “We don’t need _that_ much blood.” Caleb poured them each another drink. “We need to wait until the full moon tomorrow night. I found a place where we won’t be disturbed. It’s about an hour out of town. Me and Butch’ll pick you up around six o’clock.” He turned to Dean and grinned. “Chevy’s lookin’ good, by the way. I’m parked next to it at your motel.”  
  
“Thanks.” Dean beamed.  
  
“Are we gonna kill the guardian?” Sam asked softly.  
  
Caleb shook his head. “Can’t. It’s not a demon or a spirit or even a man. It’s an entity created entirely out of energy. It perpetuates itself by stealing life force from . . . exceptional creatures, such as yourselves and your daddy. The best we can do here is lock it away from you. In essence, we’re making you invisible to it. If this all goes right, it could be sitting right on your heads and not even see you. It’s kind of a reverse hex.”   
  
Dean frowned into his glass. “Why us? I mean, there are lots of other hunters out there. Why’s this bastard so bent us?”  
  
Caleb blinked at him, paused. “Uh . . . well. I figured you knew.”  
  
The boys exchanged a blank look, then turned back to Caleb.  
  
He drained his second shot. “I thought Missouri told you. She said she was going to.”  
  
Sam’s eyes found Dean’s across the table and locked in. “ _Did_ she tell us?”  
  
Dean sighed, stared out the window, his jaw clenching and unclenching.   
  
“Dean,” Sam insisted.  
  
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “She just told me that . . . if we . . . _you know_ ,” he lowered his voice for the last two words, then went on. “That we’d gain an advantage we don’t currently have. But she also said that advantage would be dangerous for us until . . .”  
  
“Until we get rid of the guardian,” Caleb finished.  
  
“What advantage?” Sam said threw his teeth. He was keenly aware of Caleb’s gaze moving back and forth between them and he wished his brother had been willing to talk about this when they were alone.   
  
“She didn’t specify,” Dean muttered. He looked down into his glass again and clammed up. “All she said was . . . we’d be connected. And then we’d be vulnerable until we gained the upper hand with the guardian.”  
  
The brothers stared at each other, Sam petulant and Dean cagey. Caleb crunched another chip whole.  
  
“All right,” he said, talking around a mouthful of crunchy corn. “You boys are tiptoein’ around, trying not to say shit in front of me and that’s nuts. We need to clear the air before we go any further.”  
  
The boys regarded their father’s friend warily.  
  
Caleb swallowed what was in his mouth, then poured himself another shot. The boys hadn’t finished their second ones yet.  
  
“Your daddy thinks I don’t know about you two knockin’ boots,” he said. “But I do. And I have since you were just squirts.”   
  
Sam offered his brother an ‘I told you so’ look in response to which Dean rolled his eyes.  
  
Caleb gave Sam a wry grin. “I told Johnny when you were only four years old that you were gonna be trouble, kiddo.”  
  
Sam blushed even deeper and had to look away for a moment. Caleb laughed and went on.  
  
“I remember coming to visit you guys when you were in Denver and Johnny had an apartment for a few months. You were about two or three, I guess,” he said to Sam. “And you were that kid who would investigate every new thing by putting it in his mouth.”  
  
Dean chuckled, Sam covered his face.   
  
“I told your daddy that you were gonna be hell on wheels come puberty.” Caleb lowered his voice, nudging Sam’s arm with his elbow. “He told me you started spankin’ the monkey when you were nine. He said he thought you were going for a record—hundred times worse than Dean-o ever was.”  
  
Sam groaned in pain and slumped down in his chair while his brother laughed full throttle across from him. Dean even slapped the table once.   
  
Caleb lifted his eyebrows and smirked at John’s oldest boy. “He still that horny?”  
  
“Hell yeah,” Dean said.  
  
Sam whined like wounded dog. “Would one of you just _shoot me_? It’ll be much more merciful.”  
  
They were all laughing then and several of the other patrons in the crowded restaurant glanced over to see what all the fuss was about. Sam caught the eye of a pretty young woman sitting near the wall and she smiled at him shyly before she turned away. At another time, he might have wandered over and tried to engage her in conversation, but that day all Sam wanted to do was stay right where he was.  
  
Having Caleb with them, hearing his deep, resonant voice and his throaty laugh, seeing his face and knowing he was with their father only a day ago made Sam feel closer to home than he’d felt since he left for Stanford. Even all the good-natured ribbing he was enduring felt wonderful. Until Caleb had walked in and crushed them both in a hug, Sam had almost forgotten how much he missed his dad.  
  
Dean finished his drink and Caleb poured him another, glancing with frank disapproval at Sam’s still full glass.   
  
“What’s the matter, Sammy? You don’t like tequila?”  
  
“It’s Sam and I love tequila.” He reached for his glass and tipped its contents into his mouth all at once. He swallowed, winced, then held out the empty to be refilled.   
  
Caleb happily obliged, but one eyebrow was pointedly arched. “It’s always gonna be Sammy for me,” he whispered and then he winked, just like Dean always winked at Sam—quick, flirtatious, affectionate, assertive. Sam felt a tickle in his loins and couldn’t help smiling.  
  
The waiter brought them a huge plate of nachos and set it in the center of the table, along with a pile of paper napkins. After he’d gone, they all reached into the steaming stack of chips, beans, meat, salsa, guacamole and chilies and for a while they were too busy eating to talk. Dean picked the extra jalapenos off the bites he took, Sam scooped them up and ate them.  
  
Finally Caleb sat back in his chair and looked at each of them until they looked back, waiting for him to speak. His gaze landed on Dean before he spoke again.  
  
“You remember that Baobhan Sith in New Haven?”  
  
The ruddy mirth that had been lingering in Dean’s face drained out so suddenly that Sam became alarmed.   
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. He looked down at the table with a deep frown and then he shuddered. “What about it?”  
  
“That’s kind of what we’re dealing with here,” Caleb said. “Except your guardian wants energy, life force—not blood. When you two are together, you create a specific energy. The guardian wants to drain that and use it to make itself stronger. Now, when your daddy is with you, the three of you make a whole different level of energy. The guardian knows you won’t get together in one place now that you’re aware of its intention. If you did, it could ride along your connection like a subway tunnel and kill you all while you tried to protect each other.” He snapped his fingers. “One shot cuz you’d all be wide open to the extraction.” He reached for the bottle and filled his glass again. “I would like to avoid that if at all possible.”   
  
Dean shook his head. “I have no idea what any of that means, man. I don’t care what it wants. I just want it gone.”  
  
Caleb pursed his lips. “No, Dean-o. You need to understand what it wants so you can protect yourself. Can you and your daddy talk . . .” He touched his finger to his forehead. “In your heads?”  
  
Dean shook his head. “We’ve never tried.”  
  
Caleb looked at Sam. “I know you can’t talk to your daddy cuz he needs to keep you out.”  
  
Sam frowned hard and started to speak but Caleb cut him off.  
  
“He can’t have you runnin’ off trying to find him right now, Sammy. And that’s just what you’d do, isn’t it?”  
  
Looking down, Sam sighed. “All right. Yes.”  
  
“Right,” Caleb went on. “So, he can’t let you see him or hear him right now. What about the two of you? Can you do it?”  
  
The boys looked at each other and Dean spoke first.  
  
“It’s happened a few times randomly, but we can’t figure out how to control it.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Caleb mused, reaching for another chip. While he chewed, he talked. “So, you can’t make it work?”  
  
They shook their heads.  
  
“Hm. Does it feel like the connection is bein’ blocked?”  
  
Again, they looked at each other but Sam spoke that time.   
  
“No, it just feels like . . . we can’t do it. Like we don’t know how, or whatever.”  
  
Caleb nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Okay. Then tell me this. When do you boys feel the most connected. The most, ya know . . . _Winchester_.”  
  
Sam watched his brother’s face closely, measuring the confused furrow in Dean’s brow. Softly, he said, “uh, maybe when we’re . . . ya know, sleeping together?”  
  
Caleb turned to him. “Is that when you feel the closest?”  
  
The boys searched the other’s eyes, neither wanting to say anything that might expose too much emotion.   
  
Caleb cleared his throat, shifted in his chair to cross his long legs out to the side. He faced Sam. “Sammy, tell me when you feel the most connected to your brother. What are you doing when you have that sense.” He tilted his chin down. “And don’t worry, boy. The day John Lennon was shot dead in the street, it stop being possible to shock me.”  
  
Sam cleared his throat, looking down into his glass as he thought. “Uh . . . probably . . .when . . .”  
  
Clearly getting impatient with their shy hesitation, Caleb huffed a sigh. “How about when he’s got his dick up your ass?” he offered.  
  
Sam’s eyes bugged out and he actually gulped. Then Dean spoke up, but very softly.  
  
“We haven’t actually . . . done that. Yet.”  
  
Caleb’s bottle glass blue eyes narrowed to slits. He stared at them one at a time, then he chuckled. “Are you shitting me? You haven’t fucked each other yet?”  
  
Sam’s eyes darted over to the pretty girl along the wall, but by some miracle she hadn’t heard that. Or if she had, she wasn’t letting on.  
  
“No,” Dean said, his voice a fragile husk.   
  
The waiter appeared with the two plates of beef tacos and he set them down at the tense, silent table. Caleb thanked him and then he left, glancing back at them before disappearing into the kitchen.   
  
“Right,” Caleb said, reaching for a fork. He stabbed a pile of steaming rice and took a big bite, still looking from one to the other of John’s boys. “Can I ask why not?”  
  
Sam and Dean looked at each other but said nothing. Sam was waiting for his brother to explain and it appeared Dean was doing the same thing. Caleb sighed, then nudged Sam’s arm with his knuckle.  
  
“You tell me, Sammy. You love talkin’ about this.”  
  
Sam opened his mouth and took a breath, but Dean spoke before he could.  
  
“Dad made me promise,” he said, still looking down into his drink.  
  
“I see.” Caleb paused for a long moment, seeming to turn that statement over in his head. Finally, he said, “when was that?”  
  
Dean looked at him, his eyes wide and circumspect. “I was fifteen.”  
  
Nodding decisively, Caleb set his fork down and reached for his drink. “So that went down when Sammy was twelve?”  
  
“Mm hm.”  
  
Sam touched Caleb’s arm and quietly said, “I’ve tried this argument already.”  
  
Caleb grinned. “I’m willing to bet you’ve been ‘trying that argument’ since you were about thirteen.”  
  
Blushing, Sam looked away, then back at his brother. He was pleased to find Dean grinning as well.   
  
“Look, Dean-o,” Caleb said. “All I’m saying is that your daddy was trying to protect his baby son then. Sam’s no baby anymore. You two should do whatever feels right. It’s up to you now, not your father.” He sipped his tequila then picked up his fork again. “Okay, lecture over. So, for the time being, when do you boys feel the most connected? We need to determine this because that’s how we’ll catch this fucker.”  
  
Once again they looked across the table at each other but neither were quick to speak. Sam reached for another nacho chip, watching Dean’s face while he chewed.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Dean raked his fingers through his short hair. “I guess . . . for me, it’s . . .” He lowered his voice, looking at Caleb confidentially. “Kissing him right after he comes.” His eyes darted to Sam’s, then away again. “He’s just so . . . _open_ then, so vulnerable. His limbs don’t work and he can’t really move. I don’t know.”  
  
“You feel like you need to protect him then?” Caleb asked, his voice also low, conspiratorial.  
  
Dean only nodded.  
  
“Okay,” Caleb said, turning to Sam. “How about you?”  
  
Wiping salt off his long fingers on a rough paper napkin, Sam shook his head. “I’m afraid mine isn’t quite as romantic.”  
  
“Big surprise,” Caleb winked. “Just tell me.” He took another bite of rice and beans but his bottle glass eyes fixed Sam’s intently.  
  
He cleared his throat. “It’s when he comes in my mouth. I _love_ that. I feel . . . totally . . . connected to him then.”  
  
Caleb blinked, a grin tugging his lips. “And you think that’s not romantic?”  
  
Dean breathed a laugh and Sam’s cheeks burned with blood.   
  
“I need you boys on the same page, so find something that works for both of you at the same time.” He turned around and flagged down a busboy, asking him to bring waters for the table. “I’m gonna need you to do whatever it is right before the ritual.” Caleb looked at them again, one then the other. “What I’m saying is, you need to be as connected to each other as possible to give the guardian bait it can’t resist. My plan is to force it to go corporeal and then nuke it with a little hoodoo. So, be ready to get messy.”  
  
“Messy?” Sam asked reticently.   
  
“Yeah,” Caleb smirked. “I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be some gore when the thing gets hit. Like I said, we can’t kill it, but I think I can wound it enough to send it squealing into the night.”  
  
The boys looked at each other silently, moss green eyes glinting with worry.   
  
“All right, don’t worry about it now,” Caleb said. “Just eat, drink and relax. We can’t do this until tomorrow anyway, so there’s no need to dwell.” He stuck a chip into the beans and devoured it. Talking around the bite, he said, “let’s talk about something more fun. Didn’t you boys just do a black dog? I love killin’ those little bitches.”  
  
“Talk about messy,” Sam said.  
  
Dean and Caleb laughed and then Dean started to recap their most recent hunting war story. While his brother spoke, Sam’s attention kept drawing back to Caleb’s expressive, intelligent face. He watched those pale eyes glimmer with a mixture of intoxication and warmth as he listened to Dean’s tale, and he couldn’t help focusing on Caleb’s dark blond whiskers.   
  
They were especially golden along his chin, catching the afternoon light through the restaurant’s window. Sam struggled with an intense desire to touch those prickly hairs—to tickle them with his fingers and rub his lips and cheeks over them until his skin was scratched. He wondered if Dean would get a beard like that when he reached Caleb’s age. Assuming either of them actually _did_ reach Caleb’s age.  
  
They spent most of the day at that table, drinking and talking, catching up. Just as Caleb suggested, there was no more discussion about the ritual that would take place the next night. That was fine with Sam. He was perfectly happy to ignore their current unimaginable reality even if only for a few hours.  
  
As he’d said, Caleb had parked his truck next to the Impala back at the motel. The three of them walked up the sidewalk in the glow of the early sunset, Butch trundling alone at Sam’s right side. None of them mentioned the black Porsche that followed them at a five car-length distance until they reached the parking lot of the motel. There, they stopped and turned toward the entity as it appeared to idle at a stop sign.   
  
Sam glanced around at the few other cars on the road near the Porsche and realized no one else seemed aware of their pursuer.   
  
“Are we the only ones who can see it?” he asked, wondering why that had never occurred to him before.  
  
Caleb squinted in the direction of the Porsche, then he ruffled the fur on Butch’s large head. “Yep,” he said. “The only reason me and Butchie can see it is because of your daddy’s blood. It’s been running alongside mine in my veins since ‘75 and Butch got a taste of it last week.”  
  
Sam looked at him with wide eyes. “How?”  
  
Caleb grinned. “Johnny made the mistake of sneaking up on the old boy here. Butch put the chomp on his left arm before he realized who your daddy was. It’s not a big wound, but it bled like a gutted whore.” He looked back at the guardian with sharply narrowed eyes. Speaking under his breath, Caleb uttered several words Sam couldn’t make out. It didn’t sound like any language he’d ever heard.  
  
Quite suddenly, the black Porsche started off in the opposite direction down the street.  
  
“See ya tomorrow, bitch,” Caleb muttered. He turned to the boys and Butch circled around the three of them before sitting on the asphalt next to Sam. “Your doors and windows salted?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” they said together.  
  
“Good. Do it again when you go in. And put some of this down, too.” He dug in his pocket and took out a tightly twisted plastic bag filled with soft red earth. He handed the bag to Dean who squinted at it curiously.  
  
“Sacred earth from Jerusalem,” Caleb told him, then he snorted. “Or special dirt, as I like to call it. With your salt, that’ll put a good seal on the openings so you won’t be disturbed. Get some rest, boys. You’ll need it.” He opened his arms and pulled Dean into another bear-like hug, slapping the boy’s back with his large hands.   
  
Sam stepped forward to get another hug of his own but instead, Caleb rested his hand on Sam’s chest. “Walk me to my truck,” he said. “I wanna talk to you for a minute. Dean-o, I’ll come get you boys tomorrow at around six. We’ll grab some dinner, let the moon rise, then we’ll head out.”  
  
Dean nodded respectfully, then turned on his heel and started toward their room. Sam caught his brother’s quick suspicious glance as he and Caleb headed across the parking lot toward his battered, dusty grey Hummer. Butch trotted beside Sam until they reached the truck, then the dog sat down next to his owner.  
  
“What’s up?” Sam asked, trying to ignore the tightness in his belly.  
  
Caleb leaned against the dirty vehicle and took out a pack of Camels. Shaking one out, he offered the pack to Sam who shook his head. “I was gonna ask you the same thing,” he said.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
Reaching into his back pocket for a scraped up silver Zippo, Caleb struck the flint and leaned into the flame to light his cigarette. “You’ve been puttin’ the flirt on me all afternoon, Sammy. Without the benefit of subtlety. ”  
  
Sam gulped and his heart started to pound. He had no idea Caleb had seen him looking. “I’m sorry,” he murmured shyly. “I’m . . . a little fixated on your whiskers for some reason.”  
  
Caleb exhaled smoke into the waning day light, then gave Sam a playful, knowing grin. “You don’t know why?”  
  
Sam frowned, shook his head. “I thought it was because your hair color is so similar to Dean’s. Ya know, all that gold mixed in. I’ve got a little fetish for Dean’s body hair.”  
  
Caleb was still grinning as he hit from his cigarette again. “You’ve gotta little fetish for your daddy’s whiskers, too. You don’t remember?”  
  
“No,” Sam said, feeling that blush burn up his neck to his face.  
  
“When you were a kid—god, maybe five or six—you used to crawl up on your daddy and rub your little face in his beard until you broke the skin.” He laughed softly. “In fact, he told me you used to get a stiffy from it. He’d feel it pressing into his belly.”  
  
“Oh, man,” Sam groaned. He leaned against the truck beside Caleb and sighed. “I can’t believe all the totally embarrassing things you remember about us.”  
  
His smile got a brief melancholy cast. “You boys are family to me. Like my own kids, if I’d had any. Except, if you’d been mine, you’d both be dead by now.” He filled his lungs with fragrant smoke, then blew it out into the cooling air. “I’ll never know how Johnny managed to raise you two as well as he did. You’re both fine young men.”   
  
Sam looked down at the dirty asphalt under his feet, then his gaze moved across the parking lot to the door of their motel room. The lights were on inside but Dean had closed the door. Sam wondered if his brother was upset by Caleb taking him aside for this private conversation. Dean would never admit it, but he could become extremely jealous where Sam was concerned. Even with their own father.  
  
“I miss Dad,” Sam said softly, toeing the gravely asphalt.  
  
“He misses you,” Caleb said. He dropped his half smoked cigarette onto the ground then crushed it out under his battered tan boot. Giving Sam a gentle smile, he reached out and pulled John’s youngest son into a tight hug.  
  
Sam sighed against Caleb’s body, wrapping his arms around that broad, solid back. He turned his head slightly inward and brushed his cheek against Caleb’s golden whiskers just once, just for a quick comfort tickle, but as soon as he felt that shivery scratch, he knew once wasn’t enough. Caleb’s fingers slid up Sam’s back to his hair and dipped into the curls at his nape.   
  
“Go on, kiddo,” he whispered. “Get a good scratch on. Get it outta your system.”  
  
Sam breathed a laugh but took the opportunity greedily. He turned his face into Caleb’s neck and closed his eyes, brushing his nose back and forth in the thickest part of his beard. The course but silky hairs scritch-scratched deliciously over Sam’s tender lips and tickled the tougher skin of his chin and suntanned cheeks. He felt his body tingle and then his blood was rushing and then he sighed and got hard. Opening his mouth just enough, he scraped his bottom lip along Caleb’s whiskery jaw. The sensation was so intense, Sam moaned very softly right against Caleb’s ear lobe.  
  
The big man took in a breath and let it out in a long, measured sigh. He turned his head so he could speak right in Sam’s ear. “Now I know why your daddy never pulled you off him when you were doing this,” he murmured.   
  
Rubbing like a cat marking his scent, Sam whispered, “why not?”   
  
Caleb pulled back just far enough to look at Sam. “It feels damn good.” Those bottle glass eyes danced in the oncoming twilight, framed by Caleb’s dense lashes. He watched Sam’s face for a long time, holding his body close, his strong fingers toying with the curls at Sam’s neck.   
  
Sam’s heart pounded and his skin heated up as he breathed in Caleb’s scent, so close and warm, delectable and earthy, so full of memories and delicious peace, the calmness of a few childhood moments. Saliva flooded his mouth and he wet his lips, then moved in to close the distance between them, asking once again for that forbidden kiss.  
  
Caleb let Sam kiss him but he tensed at first and didn’t respond. But after a moment of Sam’s hot, silky lips gliding over his own so invitingly, Sam could feel Caleb losing his inner battle. Those full lips opened to him, hot and tasting of good tequila and woody cigarette smoke. Sam pressed even closer, letting Caleb feel his erection and the heat of his taut young body, offering, inviting. Tentatively, their tongues touched, played together and stroked each other, but just as Sam felt Caleb breathe him in, his father’s best friend suddenly pulled away.  
  
He held Sam back with his hands on his shoulders, looking down at the asphalt. Caleb closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sammy,” he said in a forced, tight rasp. “Take all that sexual energy inside and burn your brother up with it. I can’t . . . do this. You know that. Besides . . . it ain’t about me.”  
  
Steadying himself, Sam took a deep breath of the cool air. He curled his fingers around Caleb’s outstretched arms and held on until he looked up. Sam’s eyes were round and forlorn.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just kept thinking . . . I’m sorry, Caleb.”  
  
“No, it’s my fault,” Caleb said, shaking his head. He laughed mirthlessly. “Too much booze, I dropped my guard. I’ve always had to be extra careful around you, Sammy. You might be a stubborn little cuss, but you push _all_ my dirty old man buttons.” He cupped Sam’s cheek gently then stepped back, walking around the front of his truck. “Get inside, now. I’ll see you boys tomorrow night.”  
  
Sam nodded as Caleb opened the Hummer’s door to let Butch jump in and then he hoisted himself up into the cab. A moment later the big engine roared and a huge gust of exhaust chuffed from the tail pipe. Caleb lifted a hand out the window, then drove out of the parking lot.  
  
Sam watched his tail lights until they were out of sight, wondering where Caleb was going to sleep that night. His gut was a storm of guilt, desire, remorse, nostalgia and fear but his tongue kept touching his lips, still humming from the scratch of those illicit golden whiskers. He walked very slowly back to the their room, taking big breaths of the clean evening air to steady himself.  
  
When he opened the door, he found Dean sitting on the bed with the remote in his hand, flipping channels way too quickly to really see what was on. Even though he’d been inside for several minutes he was still fully clothed all the way down to his boots, as though he intended to go out again.   
  
Sam frowned and shut the door after him, glancing down at the chunky salt and red dirt lining the floor under the door. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the other bed, then he crawled in front of Dean and stretched out beside him.   
  
For a long time neither of them spoke. Sam reclined against the pillows and Dean sat up in front of him, his strong back rigid as he flipped through the cycle of channels for the third time. Finally, he just shut the television off and tossed the remote on the night table.   
  
Sam reached out, his fingers softly touching Dean’s back through his shirt. Taking a deep breath, he ventured to speak. “Not talking to me?”   
  
Dean looked at Sam over his shoulder, his green eyes pensive and wan. The expression made Sam want to scream.  
  
“So?” Dean said finally.  
  
“So, what?”  
  
“Did you get your kiss?”  
  
Sam nodded once.  
  
Dean looked down then sighed, finally settling back against the pillows next to his brother. Their arms and hips touched but both their bodies were reeds of tension. Dean seemed to be considering what to say next, chewing on his full bottom lip, his brow knitting and smoothing.  
  
“Was it what you expected?”  
  
Sam looked in his brother’s eyes and then nodded. “It was hot. Until he stopped it.”  
  
Dean held his gaze for a long moment. “I . . . couldn’t help watching you, Sammy.” He looked away for a second, then back into Sam’s eyes. “That kiss lasted two minutes and six seconds, dude. He took his sweet time stopping.” His pouting bottom lip trembled very slightly. “Do you want him?”  
  
With a small reassuring smile, Sam shook his head. “I just wanted that kiss. I got it, now it’s over.”  
  
Dean tried to smile back but failed. His thick lashes fluttered and he looked down before he spoke again. “He smelled like Dad.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, whispering. He watched Dean’s lips purse and relax, wishing he could kiss them hard and sucking until they bruised. He knew Dean had to talk this out before they could move on and Sam tried to be patient, but his body was still so aroused from that electric kiss in the parking lot.  
  
“Did you ask him?” Dean said. “Ya know, if he and Dad ever . . .”  
  
Sam breathed a laugh. “Shit, I forgot to.”  
  
Dean picked at the fraying edge of his button fly. “Probably wouldn’t have told you. Or he would have just lied.”  
  
“Probably. None of our business, anyway. All things considered.” Sam reached over and cupped Dean’s hand with his own, bringing it across to rest on his belly. For a long time, he played with his brother’s fingers, stroking them and tickling them with his nails. Then he laced his own fingers together with Dean’s and they looked at each other.  
  
“We’ve got a lot of time,” Sam whispered, then he bit his lip coyly. “Want that massage?”  
  
Dean’s eyes landed on his brother’s curled lips then he leaned forward and kissed Sam gently. By way of an answer, Dean Winchester winked.  
 


	3. Chapter 3

***  
  
He closed the motel room door as quietly as he could, but then Dean paced like a caged animal. Finally he went to the window and looked out at the darkening parking lot. He could see Sam and Caleb next to that beast of a Hummer, talking, Caleb smoking a cigarette and Sam toeing the ground like a shy cowboy.   
  
“Just do it,” Dean growled under his breath, the dusty, flimsy motel curtain tweezed between his thumb and forefinger. “Just kiss the fucker and get back in here, Sammy.”  
  
When the two figures outside moved toward each other, Dean held his breath, wanting to look away but unable to. He was holding the curtain with his left hand and his eyes flitted momentarily to the face of his watch, noting the hitching second hand. He bit his lips when their heads went together, knowing Sam was finally getting what he wanted and loathing the fact that he wanted it.  
  
Dean’s gaze moved from his brother and Caleb to the second hand of his watch, back and forth, back and forth, until it was finally over and Caleb stood back away from Sam, holding the boy at bay with his outstretched arm.   
  
“Tch,” Dean snorted. “What’s the matter, big guy? Finally remember that child you’re mackin’ on is your best friend’s son?”  
  
Turning quickly from the window, Dean went about the task of resalting all the openings, adding the silty red dirt to the mix as he’d been instructed because if he was anything, he was an obedient soldier. Then he sat on the bed and turned on the television, every muscle tense as he waited for Sam to come back to the room.  
  
Longer than a love scene in a chick flick, that kiss had been. Two god damned minutes and six fucking seconds. Dean tried to calm down, to relax his body and not show his emotions so obviously in his rigid posture, but he was angry. And injured. Damn it, they had a pact.  
  
Thinking he would be all bluster and roar when Sammy was in front of him again, Dean braced himself for an argument he intended to start. But when his brother came back into the room, Dean couldn’t even look at him. The anger he was counting on failed him woefully, ditching him and leaving nothing behind but sore places.  
  
Then Sam was lying next to him, silent and anxious, those long fingers tentative on Dean’s back. Dean meant to rail, to explode into a jealous rage and to rain guilt down on his brother for breaking their oath of never doing another guy—but that’s not what happened. Instead, once Sam was beside him on the bed, the only thing Dean felt was grateful. Grateful that his companion had returned to him, not out of obligation, but out of true desire to be there. Dean felt that desire when Sammy held his hand a few moments later and it washed over him when their lips touched.  
  
Sam was undressing him, kissing him everywhere, hands everywhere in long, soothing strokes. Those hands were apologizing for wandering and rekindling whatever lay smouldering. Dean sighed into Sam’s mouth, tasted his tongue, sucked at his lips, wet, so wet, trying to wash away any trace of the interloper. By the time Sam got him naked and on his belly on the bed, Dean’s heart was pounding and his skin tingled, lips hot, cock hard, hands facing up reaching for his brother’s hands.  
  
Instead of his hands, Sam pressed kisses into Dean’s palms, licking and puckering along his fingers, nipping the pads of the tips then sucking the fingers into his mouth one at a time. Dean wiggled on the bed, rubbed his swollen cock into the mattress and moaned. Then he felt a trickle of oil being applied to the length of his spine. Sam straddled Dean’s thighs and leaned forward, his own naked legs warm against his brother’s.   
  
Those hands and fingers stroked the oil into Dean’s back, giving it the friction it needed to create the chemical heating reaction. Warmth spread over Dean’s skin in waves, increasing every time Sam’s hands passed over. Sam kissed his neck, nuzzled his ear and whispered to him, sweet things that meant nothing to anyone but them, dirty little things that were only erotic to them and secrets only they knew. Sam said something about love a few times and Dean murmured about love in return and then those fingers were gently massaging his lower back.  
  
Dean sighed into the quiet room as Sam’s hands caressed him, back, waist, hips. Strong thumbs kneaded the large glut muscles then worked down to Dean’s relaxed legs. Sam shifted, moving so he was straddling Dean’s ankles, then he worked his fingers into the flesh of his brother’s inner thighs.  
  
“Oh, man . . .” Dean moaned and Sam kissed his tailbone.  
  
He felt the wet heat of his brother’s tongue stroke down below that nub of bone, touching the flesh beneath it, tasting it, teasing it. Dean moaned and Sam gently parted his thighs a bit more. Kisses over the blond hairs on Dean’s butt cheeks, down to the soft flesh where his ass met his legs. Sam nuzzled hard, nipped and licked and Dean could feel the tickly brush of Sam’s lashes on his tender skin.  
  
His hips lifted, pumped and it started to be hard to breathe and then Sam’s hot tongue slithered into the crease of Dean’s ass, greedily finding its sensitive twitching mark. Sam’s tongue moved in tight circles, wetter and wetter on every revolution and Dean’s body responded, tingling, opening, inviting. He wanted that slippery little thing inside him so badly, he actually whimpered. Sam didn’t make him wait long.   
  
Stretching out on the bed between Dean’s legs, Sam used his thumbs to gently press Dean’s cheeks open. The tip of his cute nose landed on the fragile skin just above Dean’s anus and then that tongue was at it again. Tight circles, long torturous licks up and down, more circles, soft vibration of moans, hot panting breath—all exciting Dean’s skin until he was trembling. And then he felt himself open and that tongue slid effortlessly inside.  
  
Shaking, Dean cried out, gripped the sheets with tense fingers, holding on, trying not to come, trying not to scream from the battery of blissful sensations. Sam had his hands on Dean’s lean hips, holding his body up and away from the mattress, keeping him from getting any friction on his throbbing cock. That tongue drove in deep, wanton, wiggling inside then stroked its way out to lick the simmering rim again. In, wiggle, rim, in wiggle rim, until Dean did scream, his balls drawing up close to his body, cock sore and leaking, bouncing lose between his body and the mattress beneath.  
  
Suddenly, he was being turned by those hands on his hips, but Sam’s tongue never lost its place. He spun Dean’s right leg over his head and held onto his back to keep their connection. He licked and swirled and dove a few more times, then he sat up, his long thigh sliding into place under Dean’s back. The looked at each other, both panting hard, flushed with arousal, flesh of the same mother glistening. Sam’s fingers curled around the backs of Dean’s knees, holding his legs up, the left one hooking over his shoulder.   
  
Eyes locked, Sam licked his lips and said, “now?”  
  
Legs akimbo, firm ass in the air, he slid his thumb into Sam’s mouth and as his brother sucked ravenously on that digit, Dean grinned. “If I concentrate, I guess I could get in the mood now. Knock yourself out.”  
  
Sam smiled around his brother’s thumb, sucked it a few more times, then released it. His eyes darted to the rumpled covers, locating the bottle of warming gel. Sam reached for it, flipped off the orange cap, then tipped the bottle over Dean’s balls, letting the thick liquid slid down his exposed crack. Keeping his eyes on Dean’s, Sam used the fingers of his right hand to smear the gel around and his brother’s balls until it heated, then up over his reddened, boiling cock, then those slick digits slipped down and quickly inside.  
  
Dean gasped as the gel made contact with that most sensitive inner skin. It made Sam’s fingers feel like steel rods that had been baking in the mid day sun. Once inside, Sam held his fingers still for a moment while the boys locked eyes again. Dean’s body hummed with a constant vibration and every extremity felt hot, shimmery. And then Sam’s fingers began to slide.  
  
Dean had never felt anything like that. Sam found nerves and soft spots, hard spots and tickly spots, all right on top of each other in that tight tunnel of flesh. Dean felt like his insides were melting and then his muscles and bones. He heard himself sighing, moaning and he tried to reach for Sam but his arms wouldn’t work. They felt encased in freshly poured concrete. He knew he couldn’t take much more of that sweet torture and he started to say something about it, but his voice wouldn’t work either.  
  
Then he felt Sam’s fingers slip gently out only to be instantly replaced with the burning hard head of his cock. It slipped inside about an inch and then he stopped. Panting, they stared at each other, Sam’s eyes wide and pleading, Dean still unable to speak. But somehow, he managed.  
  
“And you stopped because . . .”  
  
“I have to push,” Sam whisper-gasped. “Do you feel . . . the way you tightened around my dick?”  
  
Dean felt it, nodded. “Yeah, Sammy—that’s because this is an exit hole.”  
  
Sam’s lips, dark pink with animal arousal, tilted in a grin. “Not today, dude.”  
  
Despite the situation and the stretching discomfort Dean felt in his most private place, he and Sam both giggled like kids. Then Sam reached up with his lubricant slick hand and laced his fingers with Dean’s, holding tight. Their laughter ebbed and then they were staring at each other. Sam’s green eyes went misty and Dean felt like his heart might explode from the weight of everything he was feeling. Oh, no. Couldn’t have that, could they?  
  
“Come on, Sammy,” he panted, smirking. “Don’t be like that—all serious.”  
  
Sam’s brow twitched. “It is a little serious, Dean. I mean—”  
  
“All right, all right, fine. It can be serious without needing a violin soundtrack, okay?”  
  
Sam’s expression remained intense, but he was patient. After all, he was an expert at his brother’s tactics of emotional evasion. “Okay,” he whispered. “No violins.” His fingers tightened and Dean’s did, too. That was soundtrack enough for the Winchester brothers.  
  
“Good,” Dean said. “Now . . . I seem to recall you promising me you could put me orbit by fucking my ass, isn’t that right?”  
  
Smiling seductively, Sam nodded.  
  
“Well, saddle up, baby brother.” Dean winked. “Make me a space cowboy.”  
  
Sam took a deep breath then pushed forward, gently but purposefully. They both winced as the penetration increased and Dean breathed in quick shallow pants, like a new mother in Lamaze class. It hurt, there was no question about it, but it was also shattering, amazing. Dean felt like he was being cleaved in two and then fit back together with upgraded parts.  
  
Sam steadied himself with both hands on the mattress on either side of Dean’s body, carefully securing Dean’s left leg over his shoulder to maintain the best access. His cock was buried deep, almost down to his balls, and his young cheeks were ruddy and damp. Looking in Dean’s eyes, he whispered very softly.  
  
“Breathe, Dean. You have to relax or I’ll hurt you.”  
  
Dean nodded, closed his eyes and exhaled all the air out of his lungs. For a moment he just hung there, stuffed and stretched to the extreme and then he realized he loved the way it felt. The fullness, the connection and the abandon were all overwhelming and right. His hands stroked up and down Sam’s strong arms, feeling the hairs and the satiny skin, the corded muscles twitching from arousal and exertion. He remembered caressing those same arms ever since that child was born, feeling the same skin always so silky, but changing every year. Dean concentrated on his brother’s heartbeat, so steady from the solid rod of heat buried inside him.  
  
“Dean,” Sam whispered, interrupting his meditation.   
  
Dean opened his eyes. “What?”  
  
“I’m gonna move now. Ready?”  
  
They looked at each other and Dean said he was ready, without saying anything at all.  
  
At first when Sam tilted his hips back and brought them down again, there was nothing but a hard pulling scratch. Dean realized instantly that he was the only one who could fix that and so he exhaled and relaxed from the waist down, letting go completely and letting Sam drive. He sighed when Sam’s right hand connected with his hip, holding on, keeping him up, guiding him. Good hands, he was in. Dean knew that. And finally, everything felt wonderful.  
  
Sam’s rhythm was slow in the beginning, easy and careful, but once the sensation got to them both, he raised up on his hands again and got on with the serious fucking. There’s a point for all mammals when there can be no stopping, no mind changing, no matter what the consequence. The Winchester boys fell over that edge together knowing they would land on their feet at the bottom.  
  
Sam’s hips worked back and forth evenly at first but once they found their rhythm, those hips got a little figure-eight swivel in them that brought the head of his cock banging into something incredibly sweet inside Dean’s body. Sam’s cock hit that spot and Dean gasped, his body letting go even more and then tensing, rolling in opposition to his brother’s thrusts, trying to find that connection again. Oh, yes . . . there it was . . . just below Dean’s balls. He tilted his hips downward and Sam shifted his hips up, making his thrusts shorter and rounder.  
  
“Uuh . . .” Dean tried to speak, to explain what he wanted, but he couldn’t talk. It turned out he didn’t need to. Sam was following his lead with no prompting.  
  
Dean bowed his back, pressing his head into the pillows, leveraging with his knee bent over Sam’s shoulder. That spot was elusive but so damned blissful and he wiggled and turned, riding his brother’s cock until they both found it again. Then he was gasping and crying out and Sam was slamming into him harder and harder, grunting now, growling as the pleasure swelled into a being all its own.   
  
His engorged cock smacked his belly as they bounced, crashing into each other. It splattered him with pre-come and ached from over stimulation and then it erupted. The orgasm was an explosion of light and sensation and Dean knew he was screaming, didn’t care. Hell, he didn’t care if the shabby motel they were in got sucked into the bowels of hell right then and there. It was all good. Everything was so damned, ever lovin’ good.  
  
He came harder than he ever had, but he’d known it would be like that. He’d always known how intense this pleasure would be, how addictive. And he’d always known that his favorite part of the entire experience would be the sensation of Sam ejaculating into his body, deep down, hot, wet, consuming. He closed his eyes when it happened, making sure he didn’t miss anything—not one spasm, not one squirt, not one shudder. Sam groaned on top of him, shaking, thrusting, his neck muscles strained tight as he clenched his teeth to the point of breaking inside his mouth. Dean watched his brother come through slitted eyes, reaching up to stroke Sam’s sweat wet hair, soothing him as they settled.  
  
As soon as the pleasure stopped, the discomfort returned with a crash.  
  
Sam collapsed on top of him and the pressure was just too much. Dean tightened and rolled forward until he and Sam were facing each other, then Sam touched his face, once again knowing what he would say without Dean uttering a word.  
  
“It’s okay,” he panted. “Just breathe, Dean. Exhale when I pull out. Nice and easy.”   
  
Dean nodded and filled his lungs, then he let out all the air, wincing as Sam slid his spent cock out as quickly and gently as possible. There was still a shocking rip of pain as Sam’s cock head passed the tight ring of muscle, but that was fleeting and didn’t linger. In fact, as soon as he was emptied, Dean wanted Sam back inside.  
  
The boys lay beside each other on the damp, rumpled sheets, gasping until they caught their breath. Sam scooted close on the bed, snuggling into his brother as much for warmth as to convey affection. Dean kissed him slowly, lazily, noses bumping, lips sliding, tongues dancing together. The kiss lasted long, both of them drifting in the new afterglow like bees in a spring meadow. Dean rolled onto his back and pulled Sam forward until his head rested on Dean’s chest, long powerful arm draped over his belly. Dean’s cheek brushed Sam’s damp hair and he nuzzled his brother’s curls.   
  
“Sammy.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“This is the first time I can say in all honesty that your mouth tastes like ass.”  
  
There was no hesitation before they both started laughing, hard and deep as only those who share an inside joke can. By the time the giggle fit ceased, they were tangled around each other on the bed, limbs every which way, the sheet covering them for just enough warmth. Sam settled with his head on Dean’s shoulder, the last of his laughter drifting out in a breath.   
  
“Jerk,” he said.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I know. But you still love me.” He kissed his brother’s warm cheek.  
  
Sam pressed his forehead into Dean’s lips, sighed, but said nothing. Didn’t need to.  
  
Dean reached over to the night table for the remote and flipped the television on. Once again, he clicked through the selection of channels a few times before he landed on the original ‘Lethal Weapon’, an old favorite of all three Winchester men. The boys settled against each other and watched the movie, neither wanting to sleep or talk about what they’d just done. All of that could wait. Had to wait.  
  
A clatter against the window made them both jump, sitting up first, then creeping soundlessly across the room to peek through the curtains. One on each side of the window, Sam and Dean squinted into the dark parking lot. The Impala sat by itself in the same spot where Dean had parked it two days before and the only other vehicles in the small lot were a late model Toyota Camry and a pick-up truck emblazoned with a stencilled logo for Pete’s Pet Barn. They glanced at each other.  
  
“Wind?” Dean suggested.  
  
Sam frowned into the night outside. “Doesn’t look windy.”  
  
Dean looked again, then peered down at the ground just below the window. On the pavement outside their room was a scattering of small, dried animal bones. Sam saw them at the same time and the boys looked at each other again.  
  
Pursing his lips, Dean said, “well, at least the bastard’s worried.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam agreed and they both looked back out into the inky dark.  
  
  
***  
  
  
On his way to his motel in Bishop, California, John Winchester’s cell phone rang. He dug the phone out of his jacket pocket, glanced at the readout and saw Dean’s name there. He pressed the answer button.  
  
“Hey,” he said. “You boys okay?”  
  
“Hey, Dad,” Dean said and his voice sounded anything but okay.   
  
“What’s going on?”  
  
“We just had a visit from our guardian.”  
  
John frowned and his chest tightened. “Is Caleb with you?”  
  
“He was here earlier,” Dean said. “But he’s gone now. I think we’re okay—I mean, it didn’t touch us or anything.”  
  
“Are you inside?”  
  
“Yeah, in our motel. The doors and windows are all secure.”  
  
Glancing around him to see if anyone might hear his conversation, John determined it was safe to speak freely. He kept walking up the sidewalk toward his own waiting motel room and spoke to his son quietly. “What happened?”  
  
“It threw bones at the window,” Dean told him. “Looks like the bones of a cat or small dog, maybe a fox.”  
  
John considered this. “That’s just sabre rattling,” he said. “It knows what’s being planned. It can’t get in, right?”  
  
“I’m assuming it would have if it could,” Dean said.  
  
“Yep. So, sit tight, Dean. Just wait for Caleb to come get you tomorrow.”  
  
There was a long pause on the other end of the line and John stopped, turning toward the jagged shadowy hulk of the Eastern Sierras that poked the starry sky. “Dean?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Was there something else?”  
  
Another stretch of quiet and John glanced around himself again. The major California Interstate 395 was the main road through town, but at 10:35 on a Thursday night there was little traffic. The dry wind barrelled through the tunnel of desert valley surrounding the small town of Bishop, carrying on it the sweet aroma of wild sage and sun baked rock and earth. From there, Yosemite Valley was only sixty miles north. John was headed there in the morning.  
  
“I was just wondering,” Dean said in a halting voice. “When you’re coming back.”  
  
John sighed, his heart heavy. “A few days, son. I’ll be with you soon. You and Sammy just take care of each other and do _everything_ Caleb says, all right?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Dean swallowed, then said, “watch your back.”  
  
“I will,” John assured his oldest boy. “Good luck tomorrow. I’ll speak to you . . . after.”  
  
“Okay, Dad.”  
  
“Okay.” Both of them paused for a long moment and then John cleared his throat. “Take care.”  
  
“You, too. G’night.”  
  
“Good night, Dean.” He disconnected the call and pocketed the phone, but he had to wipe his eyes before he could continue walking. He was worried for his boys, for what they’d have to endure the next night. He knew they’d be terrified, even if they never showed it—not even to each other.  
  
He made his way to the door of his room, reaching into his coat pocket for the key. Before he could get it out, the door in front of him . . . changed.   
  
The beige painted particle board morphed and twisted and a wiry plume of black smoke emerged, wafting toward him in the image of a misshapen human head. The eyes took a moment to gather, but when they did they speared John Winchester to the ground where he stood. Not red but amber and roiling, twirling inside their makeshift irises as though their very substance was molten liquid. A mean scratch of mouth appeared beneath the eyes, slitting open just enough to create the illusion of speaking.  
  
“Wiiiinchessssster . . .” it hissed.  
  
John stood still, didn’t breathe.  
  
The entity lunged forward locking its boiling gaze with John’s, but he was very much aware of the thing’s lack of mass. He couldn’t even feel the slightest warmth emanating from it and it seemed to be less than an inch from his face.  
  
“. . . spawwwn . . .” it said in a sort of voice, sort of rasp. “. . . foul . . . wicked . . . sodomites . . .”  
  
John’s heart hammered in his ears, hurt in his chest, but he remained frozen, unblinking.  
  
“. . . will . . . taaake . . . them . . .” it said. “. . . eeeeatttt themmmm . . .”  
  
John swallowed. “You’ll try.”  
  
The entity suddenly swirled around his head at an unimaginable speed, but still there was no sensation. Not even a breath of breeze or a tingle of moving dust. In a moment, it was before his eyes again but those stewing hellish eyes were almost transparent. _Losing energy_ , John thought. _Goes pretty quick, huh, little bitch? Good to know._  
  
The entity made a sound then, a high pitched hissing wail that reminded John of the screeching a cat would do if it were being torn apart while still breathing. He winced, couldn’t help it, but the guardian was too depleted to make comment. Creating that horrific sound was the last thing it could do before winking out before his eyes.  
  
Still, he shivered from head to toe at that noise. It was the worst sound John Winchester had heard in nearly 27 years.  
  
  
(the end for now . . . one more chapter to go)


End file.
